


Midwinter Thaw

by rexluscus



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Loki, HolidayStoking, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On New Year's Eve, Steve and Loki are the only ones home in Avengers HQ when catastrophe strikes. Can they stop arguing and trust each other long enough to work out what to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midwinter Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReadTheWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadTheWords/gifts).



> Happy Stoki Holidays, readallthewords! I really hope you dig this!
> 
> This story is...kinda AU? Let's just say it's tentatively plausible as something that could follow from the MCU films we've seen so far, but it'll definitely be jossed by the next one that comes out.
> 
> Thanks so much to Albymangroves and Wyomingnot for reading drafts of this story. And thanks to MM for the title!

"Look," says Steve, "I just think you should be around people. It's New Year's Eve, for Pete's sake—remember those? Most years I couldn't scrape you off the bathroom floor the next day."

"Yeah, so—" Bucky folds his arms. "How exactly am I supposed to be 'social' when I'm a wanted man?"

"Well…you could go to Tony's party."

Bucky laughs. "I'd rather eat a bullet."

"You could stay in with me and watch the ball drop on TV."

"Oh yeah—real social." Bucky springs up and grabs his jacket. "I gotta get out of here, Steve." He pushes back his hair with one hand, then the other, smoothing it compulsively. "I'm gonna take the bike out and ride around for a while. Maybe head up toward Albany."

Steve doesn't know what to do with Bucky's mood. It hurts to watch. He just wants to keep him _close._ "That's—Buck, there are people out there who—"

"You were gonna send me off to Tony Stark's party! What was I gonna do, wear a mask?"

"Okay, that was a stupid idea." Steve sighs. "I just don't think—"

"That I can take care of myself?"

"—that you should be _alone_."

"Well, it's what I'm used to." Bucky's jaw flexes as he stares at the ground. "Living here, packed in like sardines with all these _super heroes_ breathing down my neck—it gets to me." He catches sight of Steve and his scowl softens. "Steve, I'm trying real hard here. But you gotta back off a little."

Steve swallows and nods.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Bucky says, and strides out the door.

 

The Avengers employ over fifty people, so there's almost never a time when HQ is completely empty. But things have been calm enough that Steve felt safe shooing everyone out for New Year's Eve with a promise to keep their phones on. He expects he'll get a call from a few of them as midnight approaches, which he plans to take in his pajamas in front of the TV while looking up Tony's pixelated nose and listening to the sounds of drunken celebration. He doesn't mind—he enjoys parties more when he attends them by phone anyway. Less overwhelming, easier to leave.

The building feels strange when it's empty, when its banks of monitors are on power-saving mode and the situation room is dark except for the twinkling of LEDs. It's not a cozy place, Avengers HQ—too many echoing hallways, too much brushed steel, too many closed-circuit cameras turning their mechanical heads to follow you. The problem isn't that you feel alone, it's that you don't feel alone _enough_. Something in the lower levels—the climate control, maybe—makes a low-frequency pulsing sound that Steve doesn't notice during the day, but at night in the dark sounds disturbingly like breathing.

Steve does a last check of the perimeter and arms the outer locks for the night. If anyone wants in—or if he wants out—they'll have to go through three layers of identity confirmation, a measure that the Steve of two years ago would have found paranoid but that he's come to appreciate. He shuts down the air circulation in the outer wings, reroutes incoming calls to the dormitory wing, and heads off to heat up some leftovers and make the first batch of popcorn for a long night of the Times Square New Year's party on TV.

Passing through the common area adjacent to the team's living quarters, he stops to straighten up a pile of magazines that have slid off a coffee table.

"Hello, Captain."

Steve leaps around and plants his foot on a magazine, which slips out like a banana peel and dumps him on his ass. Loki stands in the dark doorway of his quarters, perfect eyebrows arched. "Why, it's only me," he says once the chaos settles.

" _Jesus_ ," says Steve. After a few calming breaths, he regrets the profanity. "I didn't know anyone else was here. Loki—what are you doing here?"

"You know," says Loki blandly, "I _do_ more or less live here."

As much as Steve would like to forget it. He doesn't like the arrangement, he recommended against it, in fact—but in this new iteration of the Avengers, he's only one leader of several. And six months ago, Loki showed up wounded, humiliated and desperate, offering something they gravely needed—intelligence and expertise—so the Avengers made a deal. With so many cosmic menaces facing the Earth—particularly Thanos, who remains the biggest threat on their horizon—they couldn't afford to say no. And so now Steve gets the pleasure of running into Loki on the way to brush his teeth, or rummaging in the fridge late at night for a beer.

Since waking up from the ice, Steve has learned about several betrayals committed by post-war America against its former ideals, but the one that keeps him up at night is the secret asylum and immunity given to Nazi scientists, to gain the U.S. an advantage in the Cold War. Their deal with Loki, to his mind, isn't much better. In a cost-benefit analysis, the choice is clear: Loki's aid could save billions of lives. But it's that much harder to live with, knowing they're letting a man get away with the murder of thousands, all for the greater good.

Steve watches Loki warily. "I thought I told everyone to get out for the night."

"Did you?" Loki shrugs. He may be diminished, but he still carries himself with the same arrogant entitlement. "You _have_ failed to notify me of these proclamations before."

That's actually a problem—since Loki is not technically an employee, or even technically a _person_ according to the Social Security Administration, he has to be notified of everything informally, and sometimes Steve forgets. Probably due to his powerful denial that Loki works for them at all— _with_ them, _near_ them, whatever.

"Sorry," says Steve, without conviction. "We need to work on getting you an email address. And a phone."

"Oh don't bother—" Loki waves a hand as he turns away. "I wouldn't use it anyway. I find your communication technology insulting."

Steve rolls his eyes. "It's just a way to get in touch—don't they have that in Asgard?"

"If someone wants my attention in Asgard, they send a winged, jeweled automaton, which waits patiently upon my leisure before delivering its message and lingers until I am ready to reply. It doesn't beep or blink at me until I acknowledge it out of sheer exasperation." 

Steve has noticed that Loki always describes Asgard in the present tense—as if he hasn't accepted that he's been permanently kicked out of it, and out of its royal family. "Well, your highness," Steve fires back, unable to resist needling him even though it's the lowest form of petty revenge—"sorry if we can't always 'wait upon your leisure.'"

Loki's eyes narrow at the sarcastic deference, and he looks like he's going to throw a royal fit. Instead, he turns away. "On the other hand…I do hate being uninformed, even on trivial matters. If you could make the device's means of notification less obnoxious, I might consider it."

Haughty acquiescence is usually the best Steve can hope for, with Loki. "I'll get right on that," he sighs, and stoops to gather up the magazines so he can carry on with his dinner and popcorn plans.

Loki watches him with one shoulder against the door frame, forearms folded across his chest. Naturally, he makes no attempt to help. "I might ask you the same, Captain," he says.

Steve plops the magazines into an acceptable stack on the coffee table. "Ask me what?"

"What are _you_ doing here on this festival eve when the others are all elsewhere?"

"Can't leave the place empty," Steve shrugs. This is already the longest conversation he's had with Loki in over three months, and he's ready for it to end. "In case there's an emergency."

"So in your usual spirit of noble self-sacrifice, you designated yourself as the one person not permitted to celebrate—is that it?"

Steve glances up, curious where this is going—because with Loki, no question is ever casual or harmless. He decides to deflect it lightly, since Loki has a sixth sense for anything that could be construed as defensiveness. "Oh I'm planning on celebrating—by putting my feet up and watching some utter nonsense on TV, _alone_."

"Ah." Loki's smile is faintly mocking—or maybe faintly offended. Hard to tell. Loki can't actually want to _hang out_ , but then again, Loki would want to be asked just so he could turn down the offer. "I shall leave you to your well-deserved solitude, then," he says, and turns away in a full-body gesture Steve is tempted to describe as a "flourish."

Steve wonders where he's going—which leads him to wonder what Loki does _all_ the time, down here, when he's not busy. How does a cosmic prince take up residence in a shoebox and keep from going mad with boredom? Steve probably wouldn't like the answer. But for some reason, he opens his mouth to say: "You should stop by around midnight. I've got some champagne in the fridge."

Loki pauses, one eye glittering over his shoulder. "I'll consider it," he says after a dramatically extended pause. He affects an enormous yawn and adds, "If I have not already fallen asleep."

"Fair enough."

"By the way," says Loki, still half retreated into his quarters, "you're going about it all wrong with Barnes."

Steve blinks. "What?"

"I heard you earlier. Your mistake is that—"

"Thanks," says Steve, "but I don't need your advice about Bucky."

"You very manifestly _do_ need advice."

"I said I don't need _your_ advice. And don't eavesdrop on my conversations."

Loki's smile is brittle. "I'm only trying to help, Captain."

Steve takes a breath and forces himself to acknowledge that maybe— _maybe_ —Loki is being sincere. "I know. I didn't mean to— It's just that Bucky and I go way back, and things with him are complicated, and—"

"No matter, Captain. You needn't explain yourself to me." Every inch of Loki radiates wounded, icy pride. "Have a pleasant evening." He draws back into his darkened room and shuts the door.

Steve stares at it in bafflement. Does Loki sit in there with the lights out _all_ the time? He sighs and shuffles off to find his dinner, trying to shake his unease.

For the most part, Loki is behaving himself. But he's capable of playing a _very_ long game, and for now, their only insurance is that Loki needs _them_.

 

The phone call comes much earlier than expected, at barely past seven—and it's Natasha, not Tony. Steve is sitting in the common area in front of the wide-screen TV, and when he answers the call, Natasha's face, neck and cleavage fill his laptop screen. Of course, she looks like Rita Hayworth in her black satin dress and three strings of pearls, all auburn waves and smiling scarlet lips. Steve feels like a chump with his sweatpants on and a bowl of popcorn between his knees.

 _"Hi, Steve!"_ she says, waving a gloved hand.

"Did you feel sorry for me sitting alone at home?" Steve smiles.

She rolls her eyes and takes a long slug from her champagne flute. _"No, I'm calling because I'm_ bored _, and I'd rather talk to you than anyone here. And there's still, like, five hours to go."_

Steve laughs. "Isn't Sam there?"

_"Yes, Sam is here, but Sam is doing very well for himself, and I don't want to interfere."_

"Doing very— _oh_." Steve laughs again. "Is she cute?"

_"Cute enough. Anyway, I haven't seen him in over an hour. Tony is concealed behind his entourage, of course. Not that I'd want to talk to him if I could. Wanda and the Vision have disappeared; they're probably up in the rafters shooting spitballs at the backs of people's heads. Rhodey's around, but I'm trying not to mess with his game either. That leaves you."_

"Sorry I couldn't come with you." Steve crams a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "I had important TV-watching to do."

 _"That's okay, you can be my robot date. You don't even have to talk, I'll just carry you around and if someone's about to come over, I can start laughing like you just told an amazing joke._ "

"You should leave if the party's that terrible," says Steve. "Look at me—you know why I'm so happy? Because I don't worry about being 'cool.'"

_"You really don't, do you? I can hear the scare quotes around the word 'cool' when you say it, by the way, like you just learned it yesterday—which you basically did. You're like the world's hottest grandpa."_

"Thanks. I might use that next time I make an online dating profile."

 _"Oh, please do—I want to know what kind of woman says yes to that. Pretty sure_ I _would, but who else?"_

"Oh—" Steve moves his laptop to his other side. "Guess what? Loki's here."

Natasha's face goes blank. Everyone is trying to stay positive about Loki's presence in Avengers HQ, but their frustration comes out in little ways, and Natasha has been manifesting hers in a tendency to temporarily disconnect her emotions. _"He causing any trouble? Should I come home?"_

"Leave if you want to—don't use Loki as an excuse!" Steve grins. "No, he's fine. He's just…sitting in his room. With the lights out."

 _"That's…creepy. And sad. Wow, maybe_ he'll _be the one who answers your 'hot grandpa' ad."_

"I invited him to come watch the ball drop with me, but he didn't seem too excited."

_"Can't imagine why—sounds riveting."_

Steve laughs. "Well okay."

Natasha's face lights up. _"Oh! Come over here with me—we're paying a visit to Tony's twenty-tiered chocolate fountain."_

Steve finishes his popcorn and opens a beer while Natasha carries him around, pointing out some of the more absurd sights—like the champagne-filled swimming pool on the roof that contains an assortment of girls who might be actresses, pop stars, or debutantes.

At some point, he dozes off—or he assumes he does, because later he wakes up to the sight of Loki standing over him.

"What's going on?" he mumbles, sitting up.

"I was under the impression you wished to be awake for the turning of the new year," Loki explains, a little defensively.

"Oh." Steve yawns and shrugs. "Thanks." He kind of wishes Loki had just let him sleep.

Unhappy with Steve's show of gratitude, Loki gives him a look of pure disgust and retreats into his quarters.

As Steve rouses more, he notices how quiet it's become. The power is still on, but the laptop that had displayed Natasha's face is now displaying nothing, and the TV is blinking with a green alphanumeric _NO SIGNAL_. Which is odd, since he doubts Loki touched either of them. He tries calling Natasha back a few times, but the calls won't go through. Fiddling with the TV produces similar results.

Maybe he has an overdeveloped sense of danger, but that _is_ part of his job. He gets up.

At the main console of the dormitory wing, he runs a diagnostic. All interior systems working normally, but all exterior sensors dead. He can't pull up a visual feed of the perimeter, either.

"Anything amiss, Captain?"

Steve spins around. "Loki." He takes a deep breath and says with forced calm, "Could you, maybe, make a little more noise when you walk?"

Loki's smile is wide and false. "Apologies." He holds up his hands. "You _are_ wound exceptionally tight. Do _I_ put you on edge?"

"Not at all," Steve grumbles, and turns back to the console. "And, I don't _know_ what's amiss. Our comm grid is down, and external sensors are offline."

"That seems like cause for concern," says Loki, without the slightest hint of concern.

Steve tries one more time to bring the sensors online and then hits the console with the heel of his hand. "I need to get outside." He glances at Loki. "Uh, wanna come along?" Really, he just doesn't like the idea of leaving Loki alone inside HQ, and he's not convinced this isn't Loki's doing anyway.

"If it would reassure you," Loki shrugs.

They make their way to the outer wing in silence, Loki walking a few steps behind Steve instead of abreast, which is weird and passive-aggressive but par for the course. Steve forgets about it as soon as they reach the front entrance and see, finally, what's been interfering with the sensors.

The door and floor-to-ceiling windows—and thus, probably, the whole north face of the building—are encased in a sheet of ice several inches thick.

"What the hell?" Steve murmurs.

Loki's eyes are wide and his mouth is slack.

"Do you know what this is?" Steve demands. Because Loki looks afraid, and if he's afraid, that must mean he recognizes what he's seeing.

"Possibly," Loki says, distracted. His eyes are fixed on the ice.

Steve waits. "Well?" he prods.

Loki focuses, and turns a cold gaze on Steve. "I've lived for over a thousand years and visited many corners of the universe. I know of many phenomena that could cause this."

"You wanna guess which one _this_ is?"

Loki purses his lips. "No."

Steve wants to grab his hair. Instead he says, "Okay, well…we need to get out. Can you use magic to melt the ice around the door?"

Loki gives his fingers an experimental flick and a wisp of green flame races to their tips. "I could try—but I may damage your door."

"Better than staying trapped inside, I guess."

Loki lays his long, slender fingers on the glass, and after a few moments, it begins to glow. With a loud snap, a crack appears in the ice. Then, just as quickly, the crack disappears. Loki pulls his hand back.

"I doubt you'll be surprised to hear that this ice is not naturally occurring," says Loki.

"So you can't melt it?"

"Not with the simple application of heat, no."

"Is there something else you can try?"

"Yes—two things, in fact. One of which I'm not inclined to resort to."

Steve keeps a lid on his impatience. "So…can you try the other one?"

"You may want to disarm the lock first."

Steve punches in the three codes and the lock disengages with a hiss—at least the ice hasn't gotten into the locking mechanism. To his surprise, Loki performs no magic—he just steps up to the door, splays his hands on either side of it, and gives it a terrific wrench. The hinges squeal, and outside, the ice cracks—then the glass does too. Loki leans his shoulder into the door and tries again. Three more cracks spider through the glass. Once they stop, water seeps through the cracks and freezes, cementing them shut. Steve can't tell for sure, but the ice might actually be thicker now.

"Hm," says Loki, regarding his handiwork. "I believe all conventional approaches have now failed."

Steve stares at Loki. Somehow, Thor's feats of amazing strength don't surprise him, because Thor _looks_ strong—but Loki is built like a healthy librarian. Steve's muscles dwarf his. But of course, Steve is made of human flesh, not stardust and cosmic rays or whatever it is that makes Asgardian bodies so strong. And he may be enhanced, but he's not, well, _magic_.

Loki notices Steve staring but doesn't comment. He merely raises an eyebrow and says, "We should try an alternate exit."

"Hey—" Steve remembers Thor's account of the Dark Elf invasion. "Can't you move between dimensions or something?"

"Only in certain places, along certain lines of cosmic force—following the roots and branches of Yggdrasil, as we say in Asgard."

"I have no idea what that means."

"Of course not. In other words, no, Captain, I cannot get to the far side of this door in any but the common way."

Steve nods. "Okay—let's try the cable tunnels. Maybe the ice doesn't extend that far."

 

Steve stops by his quarters to get dressed and grab a coat before they descend into the unheated cable tunnels. Down there, it's dark and wet and smelly, and the space is narrow enough that they can't walk double-file without their shoulders brushing. This time, Loki insists on sticking uncomfortably close—probably because he senses Steve's unease.

"So," Steve asks, more to break the silence than anything, "what _are_ these possible…phenomena…that could freeze a whole building solid?"

Loki sighs irritably. "Just to name a few…the Gladnarians have a hyperspace weapon that can flash-freeze the biosphere of a planet until they arrive to devour it—a bit like your refrigeration devices. And the enchantress Karnilla has been known to encase whole worlds in ice. As far as I know, she doesn't do anything with them—she just likes the way it looks. And then of course there are the frost giants. They possess an ancient weapon that could do this—or at least they used to."

Steve has learned not to automatically write off crazy-sounding explanations like this. But he's also aware that Loki could say just about anything and he'd have to take his word for it. Loki had been on the team for months before Steve could bring himself to say the words "spell" or "magic" in team meetings with a straight face. Now he says it just to save time.

"Can _you_ cast a spell that does this?" he asks.

Loki's eyes narrow. In the dark, Steve notices that they actually glow a bit. "What—am _I_ a suspect now? I assure you, I've been in my quarters all evening, minding my own business."

"Just lining up all the facts," Steve says, in as conciliatory a tone as he can manage.

Loki isn't conciliated. He stops dead. "Captain," he says, gritting his teeth, "I get the distinct feeling you don't trust me."

Steve stares at him incredulously. "Why does that surprise you?"

Loki's eyes slide away. "I'm merely wondering how long I have to serve your Avengers, how many times I must _prove my loyalty_ , before you will accept me as your ally."

So they're going to do this now, apparently. And Steve needs to figure out what's happened to the building, but he also needs to do this. Intentionally or not, Loki has been poisoning the air at Avengers HQ for a while, and resolving team conflicts is Steve's job—even when he himself is a party to the conflict.

"See, that's just it," he says, trying to keep his voice steady and reasonable. "We don't know _why_ you're helping us. We don't trust your motives, so we don't trust _you._ "

Loki doesn't bother to keep himself steady. All at once, he looks frayed around the edges. "I'm helping you because I've run out of options, Captain!" he cries. "My father and brother have flung me out of Asgard. There's virtually no part of the cosmos that isn't swarming with my enemies. I've been run off my feet—I have nowhere else to turn!"

"Exactly," says Steve. "And in my experience, people backed into corners are dangerous. They'll say anything to protect themselves, but once they feel more secure, all those promises go out the window."

Loki laughs shakily. "I see there's no getting anything past _you_ ," he says. "You may look a bit like Thor, but you're far less of a fool." His expression sours. "It shouldn't surprise me, then, if you're also less forgiving."

Steve shouldn't care what Loki thinks, so he can't explain why the words bother him. "Loki—you've done this to _yourself_ ," he says angrily. "Every enemy you've made, you made deliberately. If it's inconveniencing you now, well, maybe you should have thought of that before you _invaded a planet_."

"You're right, of course," says Loki, glancing away carelessly.

"We didn't _have_ to take you in. We've given you a big break just by letting you onto the team—don't ask us to be _nice_ to you too. If we didn't need your skills, you'd be in prison—don't forget that."

"Ah, now I see," says Loki. He turns and strides off up the tunnel. "It's not that you _distrust_ me," he shouts over his shoulder, "it's that you can't bear to see a wicked man not getting what he _deserves._ "

Steve trots after him. "You know what those thousands of people who lost friends and family in New York deserve? _Justice_. So forgive me if I don't go out of my way to make you _comfortable_ , Loki."

Loki spins to face him. "This isn't about comfort, Captain—this is about efficiency. If you don't trust me, you can't use me effectively—and you'll have sacrificed your precious _justice_ in vain."

"Fine," says Steve. "Give me a reason, _any_ reason, why I should trust you. Offer me one _shred_ of evidence that you're not just biding your time until you turn on us."

Loki opens his mouth and then shuts it—as if he'd thought better of what he'd been about to say.

"What?" Steve shouts, then realizes he's shouting and pulls himself together.

Loki shoots him a look full of uncertainty and—if Steve isn't mistaken—terror. "I—" He avoids Steve's eyes. "I can offer you nothing," he says reluctantly. "Nothing besides my word, which—you don't need to tell me—is worth very little these days. But there you have it."

It _sounds_ sincere. And Loki is more than capable of faking sincerity, but for the moment, Steve doesn't have the will to keep pushing, to hold up the weight of this constant suspicion—and they need to get on with their investigation. For tonight, at least, he's trusting Loki, so he may as well commit to it.

He still wonders what Loki chose not to say.

The cable tunnel narrows until they're forced to crawl for the last fifty feet. At the end, there's an access grate that opens inward. Loki reaches it before Steve. He's working it open by the time Steve crawls up, and with one last wrench, he tears it off its hinges. Ice crystals rain down on their faces.

"Dammit," says Steve to the solid wall of ice across the tunnel mouth.

"We can assume the ice stretches well beyond the building, then," says Loki with maddening cheerfulness.

"We need to get something to melt it." Steve thinks for a moment. "I say we try that gas laser Selvig's been using to—"

"Captain, I already told you—no amount of conventionally generated energy is going to melt this ice!"

"You _didn't_ say that, you said 'the simple application of heat' wouldn't melt it. A powerful laser might—"

"It will _not._ Take my word for it—nothing short of magic is going to—"

"Fine," Steve snaps, " _you_ know magic, why can't you _use_ your magic to get us through that ice?"

"Because it requires a very _specific_ kind of magic that I can't use!"

"Can't? Or won't?"

Loki realizes he's caught between admitting he's less than capable and confessing he _could_ help but chooses not to. His mouth twists. "I would _really rather not_ ," he snarls.

Steve can't help it—he laughs.

Loki looks at him as though he's imagining his slow disembowelment.

"Sorry," says Steve, "you just—you sound like a kid who's scared to go on the Parachute Jump."

"I haven't the faintest idea what that means," says Loki coldly.

"It's—um—an amusement park ride. Never mind. Look—" He sobers. "If you're right, and magic's our only chance, then _you_ are literally our only way out of here. So unless you're looking forward to sitting there all night and watching while I try every high-powered tool and weapon in the building—"

"Oh for pity's sake—all _right!_ " Loki rakes his hand through his hair and draws a noisy breath. Steve realizes he's actually upset—not in that supercilious, I'm-a-prince-and-I-shouldn't-have-to way he gets when he doesn't feel like satisfying some demand, but with a touch of real misery and fear. Steve bites his lip and wonders what's going on.

"If you'd be so kind as to turn away while I do this?" Loki makes a shooing motion. Steve starts to ask why that's necessary, then thinks better of it, and obeys without a word.

It's hard to tell what Loki is doing, but Steve can hear him breathing hard, and then making little sounds of effort, before the loud snap and crunch of breaking ice fills the tunnel. Steve spins around in time to see Loki's hands push through the wall of ice as if it were sand—not, in fact, _breaking_ the ice but _reshaping_ it, somehow granting it the fluidity of water without melting it. And Loki himself—at first Steve thinks he's seeing reflected light from the ice, but no, Loki's skin is _actually blue,_ and there are raised markings on his face that weren't there before.

Loki sees him watching and jerks his hands back. Almost immediately, the blue recedes from his skin—but he's furious, and Steve braces himself for an explosion. It never comes—instead, Loki gathers himself in, hiding his embarrassment along with his anger.

So. Loki turns blue, and he doesn't like people to know about it. What does _that_ mean?

"After you, Captain." Loki delivers a mocking bow and gestures toward the aperture in the ice. Steve scrambles through it, and then reaches back to help Loki crawl out.

Once he's on his feet, he looks around and gasps. Beside him, Loki too draws a shocked breath.

In every direction, the world has been glazed in ice. Trees, buildings, power lines, roads—all of it has been transformed into a strange glassy wilderness of frozen shapes.

"What—what did this?" Steve murmurs.

Loki's chin is lifted, and he seems to be sniffing the air. "I…may be able to answer that," he says after a moment. "At least, I have a theory. But come—I must see more." He starts off at a brisk walk.

Steve jogs to catch up. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know. There's…a sort of trail. We'd be wise to follow it."

"A 'trail'?"

"Yes—magic often leaves a trail. This one is very faint, but as we get closer to its source, it may grow stronger. Are you dressed warmly enough, Captain?"

Steve laughs. "You sound like my mom," he says to Loki's sharp look.

"I simply don't want your frail mortal body slowing us down," Loki replies irritably.

"Got it." Steve smiles. "Yeah, this coat should do. Let's go."

They head off down the utility road toward the highway.

 

"Loki," Steve asks reluctantly as they trudge down the road, "how far do you think this extends?"

"Oh, I don't know—a mile? Twenty thousand miles? No way to tell, yet."

"And what do you think it would do to someone who was outside when it hit?"

"It probably froze them solid." After a moment, Loki adds, "Ah. You are thinking of Barnes."

"Yeah."

Steve doesn't expect Loki to reassure him, but he's surprised when Loki says nothing.

"Do you think he's dead?" Steve goes ahead and asks.

Loki waits longer to reply than Steve would like. "I suppose it's possible," he says eventually. "Who knows what effect this ice has on mortal bodies? I would, however, point out that Barnes was regularly put in cryogenic stasis, which his enhanced physiology allowed him to endure. That should give you _some_ hope." They walk another few paces. "There is, however, no guarantee that _this_ freezing process is similar to—"

"Okay, okay," says Steve. "Uh, thanks. I'll just…wait until we know more before I—jump to any conclusions."

"A wise choice."

As they walk, Steve tries not to think about Bucky—or about the rest of his team, wherever they are. Trapped inside Stark Tower? Frozen solid in a champagne-filled swimming pool? He senses that Loki, too, is preoccupied, though he doubts he's consumed with worry for the team.

When Loki finally reveals what's on his mind, it's not what Steve expects. "I'm beginning to make sense of you, Captain Rogers," he says, as though they've been talking this whole time. "But there's one thing I still don't understand, and that's Barnes."

Steve has a feeling their fragile truce is over. "What about him?" he asks.

"Barnes was an elite assassin in the service of your sworn enemies for over fifty years, and yet you welcome him into your home and dote upon him with the tenderness of a lover. Why is he so curiously immune to your…zeal for justice?"

"Loki," says Steve, "do not start this."

"What?" Loki's face is all innocence. "I'm merely curious why this criminal, this murderer, receives such indulgence and devotion from _you,_ of all people, who would lecture even the recipients of his charity on how much they don't deserve it."

So they _are_ doing this now. Again.

"Wow," says Steve, "guess I touched a nerve. Why are you so—"

" _I_ am not the point, Captain, _you_ are."

At least, Loki would _like_ for Steve to be the point. That's what he does—picks at other people's vulnerabilities to deflect attention from himself. But Loki asked, so Steve's going to tell him.

"The difference between him and you," says Steve, "is that he didn't _mean_ to commit his crimes. HYDRA brainwashed him—he would never have done what he did if he'd been in control of his own actions."

"Yes," says Loki dismissively, "I suppose that would make all the difference, for you. So allow me to ask, Captain—what would you do if he _had_?"

Steve frowns, unsure where this is going. "That's the point—he _wouldn't_. That's not who he is."

"Yes, but imagine if it _were._ "

"He wouldn't—"

"You've _said_ that." There's real anger in Loki's voice—real pain. "I'm telling you now to imagine that he _would_ , and _did_. What would _you_ do, in that topsy-turvy world? If the _impossible_ happened and he _did_ commit deliberate evil—could you still love such a man?"

"If he did, he'd have his reasons—"

" _Everyone_ has reasons, Captain!" Loki stops and looms over him. "Even madmen. Even monsters. Even _me._ "

"Bucky is not like you," says Steve, resisting the urge to shrink back.

"No," says Loki, suddenly airy. He turns away. "I expect he isn't. But _if he were_ —would you abandon him?"

Steve doesn't even need to think. "No."

Loki continues on his way without a word. Steve falls into step beside him.

After five more minutes, Loki says, "I don't believe you."

Steve sighs. "Well, I wouldn't." He prepares himself to deliver a low blow. "Just like Thor wouldn't abandon _you_."

"Ah, but he _did_ ," hisses Loki, his calm demeanor lifting as quickly as it had settled. "Finally, he cast me away—he'd have been a fool not to, of course, but cast me away he did—until I convinced him that I'd _changed,_ that I'd joined his heroic cause—become someone he _approved_ of—"

"Thor just got frustrated," says Steve. "You can't work day and night to make someone hate you and then act like you've proven some big point when they finally— _finally_ lose their cool."

"But I _did_ prove something—that even the mighty Thor's love has limits. And yet you are telling me _yours_ does not."

"I'm telling you Bucky could never drive me away. But sometimes it doesn't matter how much you love someone—some days you need a break."

"So Thor was merely taking a _holiday_ from his love for me when he threatened to kill me, is that it?"

"To be honest, death threats sound common in your family. At least he didn't try to _do_ it. _Twice._ "

"I see you've been talking to _him_."

They walk in tense silence for several more minutes. Steve tries to think about anything else, but Loki is under his skin, now—his anger, his remorselessness, his strange sadness that shouldn't move Steve's pity but somehow does.

"You know what I think?" Steve says at last. "I think all this time you've been testing him. To see how far his love would stretch—because you were afraid of losing it."

"I care nothing for Thor's love," snarls Loki. "I want only to reveal his hypocrisy—a hypocrisy I suspect you share, by the way. With your infinite, self-congratulating _patience._ "

"My patience is all that's keeping you on the team!" Steve shoots back.

"Yes—and you don't intend to let me forget it!"

Steve is about to fire back when it hits him: Loki has never acknowledged the slightest vulnerability, beyond the danger his many enemies pose him, before today. Maybe this bizarre fight they're having is what "opening up" looks like, for Loki. Maybe this is Loki's attempt at trusting _him_.

 

Steve keeps hoping they'll come to the edge of the mysterious ice, but when they reach the highway, the ice still stretches as far as the eye can see. Fifty yards down the road, Steve spots an oblong hillock that can only be a car. He breaks into a run.

"Captain—come back!" Loki calls behind him. "We must go _this_ way!"

"There could be people in there!" Steve shouts back.

He reaches the car and presses his face to the window, trying to see past the distortion of the ice. It's dark inside, but he can make out two figures, unmoving, their heads lolled back on their seats. Behind him, Loki jogs up.

"Are they dead?" Steve asks, rubbing at the ice to see better. "Can you tell?"

Loki lays a hand on the iced-over window. "They're not dead, I don't think," he says. "In fact, I'd say they were asleep." He makes a noise of mild curiosity. "How odd…"

"Asleep?" Steve turns to him. "Like I was, when the comm grid went down. Remember? You had to wake me up."

"Something's happened," Loki agrees, "something that affected every mortal in its radius but not me."

"So, it's not just ice we're dealing with."

"Indeed…and it's unlikely to be frost giants who did it. I've never known them to use this kind of magic."

"Can you break these people out?"

"What—and take them with us? It seems to me they're safer where they are, for now."

"Won't they freeze?"

Loki frowns. "I suppose they might…but their bodies appear to be held in artificial homeostasis—not just asleep, but suspended."

"Are you sure about that?"

"No. But I _do_ know it's quite cold out here, and we've probably much farther to go, and we can't afford to drag a couple of panicked, useless mortals along with us."

Steve sighs. He sees Loki's point, but he's not happy about it.

"Come," says Loki. "We need to backtrack."

 

They leave the highway and trek down into a wooded depression that stretches for a hundred yards or so until it ends at the shoulder of another road.

As they break through the trees, Loki says, "Ah, this may answer your question."

On the other side of the road lies a gas station. And standing at one of the frozen-over gas pumps is a misshapen pillar of ice that has to be a person.

Steve runs across the road. Behind him, Loki takes off after him, although this time he doesn't comment on Steve's haste.

The frozen figure is even more horrifying up close—caught in the act of replacing the gas nozzle, the man's face through the ice looks mildly surprised, his eyes wide open—it's hard to imagine he's asleep. Steve's eyes sting with tears—not just for Bucky but for this man too, whoever he is.

Loki, unsurprisingly, doesn't look saddened or horrified—if anything, he's fascinated. He circles the man once, then extends a hand and releases a tendril of green light, which curls around the man's frozen head. Steve watches him, barely breathing.

"Well, Captain," Loki says, pulling the tendril back into his fist like a strand of yarn, "you'll be pleased to know that this mortal doesn't appear to be dead. He's in the same state of suspended animation that the others were."

Steve lets out a gusty breath. Bucky is okay—he's out there, and _something_ has happened to him, and he's not what Steve could reasonably call "safe," but he's probably okay, for now.

"Come," says Loki, giving Steve an odd, not-entirely-unsympathetic look. "We must keep moving. You need not fear for your beloved now."

Steve bristles at that word, thinking he's being mocked, but for once, there's no irony in Loki's voice. They fall into step as Loki leads them back onto the trail.

Once they've put the gas station well behind them, Loki says, "You _are_ in love with Barnes, are you not?"

"I—" Steve is taken aback. But he hears nothing but honest curiosity, and something makes him want to answer honestly. "I'm not," he says, "but I—was. When we were just kids. That's probably what you're picking up on." He takes a breath. "But it was never going to go anywhere, and I've loved other people since."

"You speak of Peggy Carter."

He's a little alarmed that Loki knows who Peggy is before remembering how often she's mentioned around HQ—by his _team._ The team that Loki is _on._ "Yeah, mainly her." Steve smiles. He has a strange impulse. "What about—you?"

"Me?" Loki gives an exaggerated shrug, full of that performative false modesty Steve now sees for what it is: a defense. "Well, you see, I've lived for over a thousand years, and so I've fallen in and out of love with hundreds of people. With some, it lasted decades—with others, a few hours. But all of them are gone from my heart without a trace. Were I to meet most of them now—the ones who still live—I doubt any would offer me the barest decency, or even recognize my face."

Steve thinks about that. Say what you want about Loki—he doubts any lover of Loki's would just flat-out _forget_ him. "Huh. Must be weird to live for a thousand years."

"It must be weirder still to live for only a few dozen. I can hardly imagine it."

Steve frowns. "Maybe that's why," he says, half to himself.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Us mortals," Steve explains. "We're so alien to you. Maybe that's why you didn't mind killing us. Or maybe such a short life doesn't seem like any great loss to you."

"Maybe not," says Loki vaguely.

"Does it bother you, now that you know a few of us?"

Loki looks at him. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Just—if we're going to keep working together, I need to know. Do you regret what you did at all?"

"I—hm." Loki shuts his mouth and thinks. "There is no satisfying answer I can give to that question."

"Well, try. Satisfying or not." It's the least Loki can do. And for once, Steve suspects he might actually tell the truth.

"The simple answer is yes," Loki says at last. "But if I were to elaborate, you would neither respect nor appreciate my reasons."

Steve pushes away his disappointment. "Not if your reasons are that you only regret the effect it's having on your life now, when you need allies."

Loki stops in his tracks. "Captain, it would be very easy for me to lie to you about this. I'm _trying_ not to. Do not make assumptions about me, and do not push your luck and demand that I speak the full truth, about myself or anything else, when you've done nothing to earn it."

"Done nothing to _earn_ it?" Steve stares at him. "We're taking our lives in our hands just by letting you in the door!"

"You think that earns you the truth of my innermost heart?" Loki's eyes flash in the gloom, wide and wounded. "I have bought your toleration in other ways. You may not insist on this as well." He starts walking again, his long strides forcing Steve to run a few paces to reach him.

Loki has a point. But Loki is also their biggest vulnerability, and they can't keep on this way forever.

"Look," says Steve, "sooner or later, you're gonna have to give me _something._ And let's face it: it's only going to be worth a damn if it hurts. After everything you've done, that's the only way I'll believe you really mean it."

Loki stops again and contemplates the ground. "What I regret," he says at last, "is hurting _you._ "

A shiver runs from Steve's scalp all the way down his back.

"And _that_ regret," Loki continues, "spawns other regrets, other…realizations…" He clenches his fists, and looks up at Steve miserably. "I do not _understand_ regret, Captain. It fills the mind with doubt, the body with weakness—it eats away at one's resolve. It is a creeping, courage-sapping pain. _Why_ is it the only currency you will accept?"

And now, of course, Steve feels like a jerk. He _wanted_ this— he has lain awake at night _hoping_ that Loki is secretly tortured by regret, because that's what Loki deserved. But faced with the reality, he can't enjoy another person's suffering. No, more than that—he can't enjoy _Loki_ 's suffering. Because he may actually _like_ the guy now.

 _What I regret is hurting_ you _._

Steve's cheeks flush. He can't keep having this conversation—not when he feels this strange, this confused. "We should move on," he says, and tries to avoid Loki's wounded eyes.

 

"How much farther, do you think?"

Loki has been leading them on a winding path for over forty-five minutes.

"Not much farther. The trail is stronger now. It is telling me…more, about what we're dealing with."

"Wanna let me in on any of it?"

"Not really, no."

Steve nods, pressing his lips together. It's not like there's much he can do about it.

They cross another road and descend into a shallow drainage ditch. On the way up, Steve slips on the ice, and only Loki's iron grip keeps him from falling. Either Loki's boots have really good treads on them, or balance is yet another of his preternatural abilities.

"You really should hear me out about Barnes," Loki says, breaking several minutes of silence.

Steve tries to retrace the path of their conversation. Talking to Loki is often like that—his memory for other people's words, especially ones that offend him, is so good that Steve can put his foot in a verbal bear trap before he knows what's happening. But this time, he's pretty sure Loki is just referring to the "advice" he'd tried to give Steve about Bucky back at HQ.

"Okay," Steve sighs, "I'm listening."

"You see, I think I may understand him a bit better than you, since I know something of what he's experienced—"

"Loki," Steve interrupts, "how many times do I have to say this? _He isn't like you._ "

"Yes of _course_ not!" snarls Loki. "May the sky strike me down should I even _suggest_ that your saintly friend bears my wicked self the _slightest_ resemblance!"

"Whoa whoa!" Steve holds his hands up. "I wasn't trying to—I'm just—okay, never mind. Keep going."

Loki takes a deep breath. "What I'm _trying_ to say is that you must stop demanding he be the man you remember." Steve hears the pain behind the withering sarcasm when he adds, "I wouldn't _dare_ assert even the _remotest_ equivalence between us. But in one respect, we are similar—we have both been mistaken for past versions of ourselves. The Barnes you knew before is gone— _this_ man, for better or worse, is who he is now—and if you are truly his friend, you'll reassure him that you won't forsake him even if he never regains another memory." He heaves a deep sigh. "Do I make sense?"

Steve nods mutely.

"Right." Loki looks dazed, as if he can't quite believe he said what he said.

"Thanks," says Steve. "That's…good advice."

"I know." Loki's arrogance doesn't have its usual bite as he re-erects his defenses. "I'm actually quite clever about people."

Of course, Loki mostly uses that cleverness to manipulate. But maybe he's getting tired of that.

"I don't understand," says Steve. "You can be insightful about other people, even wise. But when it comes to yourself…"

Loki looks stricken. "You're not the first to say so," he says, then shakes his head. "For my own part, I always _know_ the wisest course of action. It's just that I rarely _take_ it."

Steve laughs. "What stops you?"

"Honestly?" Loki gives him a crooked smile. "I have no idea. Sheer perversity, my mother used to say—an impulse to simply _see what happens._ Haven't you ever spotted a beautifully set banquet table and yearned to send it all crashing down, just to find out what noise it will make?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, _I_ have—most days of my life. If not a banquet table, then something else—my brother's assurance of his own worthiness, for example. My father's convictions regarding the best way to rule. The Lady Sif's perfect golden hair. Beautiful, orderly things just make my fingers itch." Loki's expression turns grave. "Except you, Captain. Yours is the only beauty I'm not tempted to destroy—don't ask me why."

Steve swallows loudly. His cheeks flush again.

"You're so easy to discomfit, Captain."

Steve isn't looking at him, but there's a smile in Loki's voice. Steve returns it, eager to show he isn't nearly as discomfited as Loki thinks. "It's just, you give me whiplash. One second, we're fighting about crime and justice and regret and trust—and the next second, you're flirting with me."

"Oh, do you call that fighting? That was _nothing_ —just a friendly debate."

 _Sure_ , Steve thinks. And Loki doesn't deny the flirting part.

 

The next time he looks at his watch, it's nearly ten o'clock. He tries not to think about Bucky, but that just means thinking about everyone else. Are Natasha and Sam and Tony and Rhodey and Wanda and the Vision all asleep in Stark Tower, like the people in those cars? Will they wake up if he and Loki can get to the bottom of this? What will he even _do_ once they find whoever's responsible?

Compared to those worries, poking at the hornet's nest of Loki's issues seems like the more attractive option. For once, at least, he's not doing it with the unacknowledged intention of hurting him. For once, he actually wants to understand.

"Can I ask you something?" he says. Loki shrugs. "The way Thor tells it, things were fine in Asgard for a thousand years—give or take a few broken banquet tables, I guess, but some of those most have been Thor's—until one day you just…went nuts. And maybe that isn't as true as Thor thinks…but _something_ must have happened."

Loki nods.

"So, what—happened?"

Loki sighs. "Several things, in rapid succession—but most importantly, I fell."

"You—fell?"

"Into the void."

"That's…not very specific."

Loki doesn't notice Steve's weak attempt at a joke. "The universe is so very vast," he says. "So very vast," he repeats, and he seems to forget he's speaking aloud, his gaze unfocusing. "Once I was content, like you, to live in a narrow circuit, to concern myself with my people and my family in the place where I was raised. Then my tether to those things broke and I drifted out into the vast void. And that, I learned, is all that's truly real. Living creatures are but a film of pollen dust upon the water—compared to the void, they can barely be said to exist at all."

"So it doesn't matter what you do?" says Steve. "Is that where this is going?"

Loki blinks, as if realizing Steve is still there. "I've seen hundreds of worlds, thousands," he says angrily, "I've seen into the heart of the void, and what I've seen is but an infinitesimal fragment of what exists. _No_ , what I do doesn't _matter_. My careering course and its wake of destruction are but the drifting of a dust mote."

"That's just an excuse," says Steve.

"If you'd seen what I've seen—"

"Loki," says Steve, "we may be small, but our lives matter to _us_. Out there, you still have a father and a brother, and it still matters how you treat them and everyone else."

"At home," insists Loki, "I was nothing—I was the despised second son. Out there, I became _myself_. The void taught me how to be a god—"

"Maybe it taught you to _think_ you're one," says Steve.

"Gods are distinguished from others primarily by what they _think_ ," says Loki contemptuously. "They see beyond the trivial and the sentimental—they see into what _is_."

Steve shakes his head and opens his mouth to argue—but the misery on Loki's face makes him shut it again.

Suddenly he knows what's behind these rants about "sentiment" that Loki often treats them to—not contempt, but longing. Loki _wishes_ he didn't feel, didn't care about "trivial" things. But he does. And it hurts, because he's lost everything he cared about. By his own hand, of course. But that must only make it worse.

As Steve's mom used to say: Loki made his bed, and now he's lying in it. And he's doing his best to convince himself he's comfortable there.

What can a man like that do? Man, god, alien—whatever. What are your options, when you've committed unspeakable crimes, destroyed everything you loved, and buried yourself under an immovable mountain of guilt? What can you do, except assume the quiet humiliation of incremental repayment, emptying the ocean one spoonful at a time, plugging away at inglorious helpful deeds? At the beck and call of your old enemies, perhaps?

Maybe _that's_ why Loki is here.

Loki has noticed Steve's failure to fire back, and his trance-like fervency has lifted a bit. When he speaks, his eyes are clear and focused. "You've seen things as well," he says. "Haven't you, mortal?"

For a second, all the breath leaves Steve's lungs. He says, "What do you mean?" even though he knows exactly what Loki means, saw it in his mind the moment Loki spoke the words: the endless gray-blue sea, bubbling, frozen, sunk in a half-sleep—five decades caught in a freezing, gray-blue, waking nightmare.

"I only mean that you've looked into a void of your own," Loki replies, turning away as if to give Steve his privacy.

Steve doesn't answer, thinking instead. Then he laughs, sending out a puff of steam to circle his chin. Sometimes when Loki calls him "mortal," it's almost charming. Thor stopped doing it once he learned most "mortals" find it belittling, but Loki has no such compunction—and yet, these days, he says it with more fondness than derision. That's what the Avengers are to him—Loki's little _mortals_.

"I have to admit," Steve says, "I'm not crazy about all this ice."

"Nor am I," Loki says. The words feel significant, but he doesn't explain himself.

Maybe Steve will ask about that later.

Loki stops, bringing Steve up short. "There," he says. He lifts a finger and stares into space, as if catching the faintest strains of distant music. "She's been this way—I can sense the trace she left."

Steve frowns. " _She?_ "

"Hela," says Loki.

"Who's Hela?" Steve asks, but Loki has already grabbed his wrist and broken into a jog. His eyes are alight.

"Do you recall what I said earlier about the roots and branches of Yggdrasil?" says Loki, slightly breathless.

"Uh, kinda."

"Prepare yourself—we are about to follow one."

"How should I—"

The world sucks into a point and inverts itelf. When he next draws a breath, they're jogging not along a frozen highway but across a field of snow.

Wind whips past their ears. "Where are we?" Steve shouts, trying to slow his hammering pulse.

"Your people call it the Yamal Peninsula," Loki shouts back. "In the country of Siberia."

" _Siberia?!_ " Steve's pulse races again. In less than a second, they've traveled over 5,000 miles, stepped across the globe in a single stride. Questions and protests crowd into Steve's mind, but he bites his tongue. "Is that where this—Hela person went?"

"Indeed." Loki is still clutching Steve's wrist. "She should be quite nearby now."

"Is there anything I should know about her before we get any closer?"

"Yes." Loki rounds on Steve. "Avoid speaking to her, and _don't_ look directly into her eyes." He picks Steve's wrist back up and jogs on.

"Glad I asked," Steve mutters as they run.

The terrain is flat and empty in all directions, and Steve scans the horizon for a dark spot that might be the mysterious Hela. When a huge figure rises up from the ground to loom over them, Steve nearly falls, skidding to a stop beside Loki.

Hela looks roughly like a human woman, but she's over eight feet tall, and her skin is the color of granite. An enormous headdress makes her seem even taller. At first, Steve thinks it's a set of antlers, but as he looks closer, he sees that the branching crown is made from carved, blackened bones—human or animal, he can't say.

Next to him, Loki has fallen to his knees. Steve copies him.

"Loki Liesmith," Hela purs above them, and Steve shudders; her voice seems to originate inside his head, not in the woman's body. "I had no idea you were back on Midgard. I assumed Odin had barred you from it."

Loki lifts his face. "I'm sure he would have, if he'd thought about it," he says, "but he was more interested in barring me from Asgard." There's a note of obsequiousness in his voice that Steve doesn't like.

"Ah," says Hela, "so you've finally been cast out, have you? And now you amuse yourself by slithering amongst the mortals, I see."

"Cousin," says Loki tetchily, "would you be so good as to tell me what you're doing with _that?_ " He points to the ornate blue box beneath her arm.

She holds it up. "This?" She laughs, and upleasant shocks race down Steve's spine. "Oh, I see—you fancy it's yours, don't you? Well, you'll be interested to learn that after it left your hands, it fell into my kingdom." She studies it consideringly. "A useful item, this Casket of Ancient Winters."

"And I'm happy to let you keep using it, if you tell me what you're using it _for_."

"Nothing that will permanently damage your new home," she promises. "In fact, I'm doing my best to protect Midgard. Do you know what today is?"

Loki calculates something in his head. "By the old or the revised galactic calendar?"

"It is the day of the Hunt."

Loki's eyes grow round.

"What's 'the Hunt'?" Steve mutters to Loki.

"Fear not, Liesmith," Hela continues, ignoring Steve. "Midgard merely sleeps for a brief while beneath its cocoon of ice. Protected from the rout and the din. As they sleep, they will see nothing, hear nothing—when they wake, they will remember nothing." She turns to Steve. "Except for this one, of course."

"How long before it begins?" asks Loki.

"It is upon us," says Hela. She gathers her cloak around her. "Now, little exile, farewell. May you find your way back to some home or other."

 

As soon as she's gone, the wind rises—and then a noise that isn't just the wind, rising along with it, roaring, growing closer. Next to Steve, Loki looks up at the sky, and Steve follows his gaze.

At first, it looks like a funnel cloud—a tornado, lurching toward the earth. Then, Steve sees what it's made of: thousands upon thousands of demonic figures, mounted on demonic horses, like the creatures in those paintings of Hell or the Apocalypse he's seen at the Met. He turns to Loki, but Loki is transfixed, wild-eyed, and somehow—this is the strangest thing of all— _larger._ Steve's head spins and throbs. It's as if he's has lost all sense of scale, and both Loki and the creatures rushing toward them have grown to fill the sky like clouds, changing, roiling, flickering with lightning. Steve doesn't even have the breath to scream. Then Loki turns and flings him to the ground.

He remembers the shelters during bombing raids. The world seized with terrifying thunder, shaking your teeth, your brain, your eyeballs in your head—it's just like that, but with nothing between him and the bombs except Loki's body. The thunder rolls on and on. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep breathing.

"Mortal! Open your eyes!" Loki shouts, his breath hot in Steve's ear.

Steve does. Wind tears at his face, and through the writhing lattice of Loki's inky hair, he sees the sky, and _in_ it—chaos.

He catches a glimpse of Loki's face. It's full of longing.

The thunder continues. Steve shuts his eyes and listens instead to Loki's heart beat, his breath heaving in and out. Then, abruptly, the din passes and Loki's heartbeat is all he can hear. Loki stiffens and pulls away. They help each other to their feet and look around.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks.

"Me?" Loki blinks. "Oh, yes. Fine. Apart from the horseshoe-shaped bruises on my arse."

Steve smiles. But Loki is lost in a strange zone: making jokes out of habit, but unaware that anyone's listening. Steve reaches out and grabs his hand, afraid that if he doesn't, Loki might wander off onto the tundra, never to be seen again. Loki doesn't pull away, but he doesn't grip Steve's hand back either.

"Let's go home," says Steve. Loki nods, blinking.

The ice in all directions is pitted with giant hoofprints. As they walk, steam rises from the ground. After a while, it starts to rain.

 

The trip back is no less stomach-curdling but mercifully just as short as the trip there. Then Steve remembers they still have an hour's walk back to HQ.

"So, what _was_ that?" he asks as they trudge through the sublimating ice.

"It's called the Wild Hunt," Loki replies. His trance has lifted, but he's still distant and melancholy. "The last time it happened, your ancestors were probably living in straw huts. There was a lot less for the Hunt to trample back then."

"And what were those…things?"

"All manner of cosmic beings, from all across the Nine Realms. Nothing _you'd_ ever want to meet."

"Where did they go?"

"Once they've covered every last mile of Midgard? On to the next realm, I imagine."

"For what purpose?"

"None, that I know of. Joy, perhaps? The pleasure of existing? I've never taken part in it, so I couldn't say."

Loki's willingness to be questioned sounds close to exhaustion, so Steve keeps the rest of his thoughts to himself. Around them, the ice is still steaming, and a light rain is falling. There's a gentle clap of thunder in the distance.

Steve barely grasps what just happened. But for Loki, he's pretty sure it was an opportunity. One that he passed up, to keep Steve safe.

Loki has just forsaken cosmic adventure, _for Steve_ —and he might also be on Earth, enduring the thankless task of aiding his old enemies _for Steve_ —and suddenly a lot about Loki is coming into focus, the more Steve thinks about him. As he thinks, heat creeps up his neck and flushes his cheeks. As they walk together across the highways and culverts and empty interstitial spaces of suburban upstate New York, Steve fills up with a rushing current of joy.

At the gas station, the man who'd been frozen at the pump is nowhere to be seen. When they cross the highway, they have to wait until cars have passed.

Steve gets out his phone and calls Natasha.

_"Steve, we're on our way to HQ—something weird happened, we're not sure—"_

"Yeah, I know. I'll explain it once you're here. Is everyone okay?"

 _"I think so…nothing_ happened, _exactly…"_

"I'm just glad you're all right. See you in a bit."

He puts the phone back in his pocket.

"Well, go ahead," says Loki. "Call Barnes if you wish."

Steve glances over. Loki sounds…sad, diminished, but back to normal. "Nah," he says lightly, uncertain of Loki's mood and what role he plays in it. "Bucky never takes his phone when he rides off in a huff like this."

"Mm." Loki smiles faintly. "Doesn't enjoy being summoned with a bell like a servant, does he?"

Steve laughs. "You don't _have_ to answer it, you know. Unless it's me or Natasha, and you're on call."

"Perhaps you could make it emit a more…pastoral sort of noise. Like birdsong, perhaps."

"Okay, _that_ we could do."

 

HQ is mostly free of ice when they arrive. This time, they walk in the front door, which is cracked and hanging on one hinge, but freely passable.

The situation room is swarming with Avengers in their evening wear.

"Glad you could make it, Steve," says Fury, covering the mouthpiece of his headset with one hand. "We're getting calls from as far away as Singapore reporting that—"

"Right—yes—Nick, I can explain. Well, _Loki_ can explain. We handled it, don't worry."

Fury's scowl is thoroughly unimpressed. "You _handled_ it?"

"Maybe you should get everyone in here for a briefing."

Once his team has gathered in the conference room, Steve explains what happened: the ice, the magical sleep, Hela, the Wild Hunt. Behind him, Loki perches on the arm of a chair. When Steve prompts him, he contributes a few details, but otherwise he stays quiet.

After they're done, Fury says, "That's fascinating. How are we going to explain it to Singapore?"

"I'd say that's more your area, Nick," says Steve, sinking into a chair. "Sorry if I don't man the phones this time—I've had a long night." Beside him, he feels Loki get up and drift away.

At a quarter past eleven, the door slams open and Bucky rushes in. Steve gets up.

"Bucky! Oh thank God." Steve hugs him and gets an awkward but sincere pat on the back for his trouble.

Bucky pulls away. "Steve, what happened? I was riding up route 9, and suddenly the temperature drops 30 degrees and everything just kinda—goes away for a second—and the next thing I know, I'm parked in the middle of the road and I don't remember stopping. Natasha says there was some kind of freak ice storm but I don't remember—"

Steve takes Bucky's shoulders to calm him. Anything that smacks of targeted memory loss tends to set Bucky off these days, but it's probably better than a vivid memory of being frozen solid for several hours. "Asgardians," Steve explains. "One of them came to Earth, did something insane but basically harmless, then reversed it and left. Shouldn't happen again. Apparently it's a—holiday of sorts for them, comes around every thousand years or so."

"Friggin' _Asgardians_ ," Bucky says, shaking his head. "Remember when it was just Nazis?"

Steve smiles. "Yeah."

At a few minutes to twelve, someone switches the big situation room monitor over to CBS coverage of Times Square, where apparently the celebrations are continuing as planned. Steve is impressed. A few hours earlier, thousands of people became living ice sculptures, and now they've just picked up their evening where they left off.

Sam has a bottle of champagne open and is filling up plastic glasses. Natasha hands one to Steve. As he clinks his glass with hers, he looks around to find Loki and spots him leaning against the wall, watching the monitor with the air of someone who just needs to watch _something_.

Loki starts a little when Steve comes up beside him, and accepts the drink automatically. "What's this?" he asks once he's had a chance to look at it.

"Traditional at New Year's," Steve shrugs. "I think this is the cheap stuff, so don't expect much."

Loki's smile is faint, but not bitter. "I never do, from you mortals."

The TV presenters are counting down now, and the screen shows the illuminated ball ready to descend. All around him, Steve's team joins in.

"—two—one—HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The room fills with cheers, followed by a flurry of kissing. Steve looks over in time to see Natasha place a perfectly decorous but very deliberate kiss on Bucky's mouth. When she pulls back, Bucky's face is slack and incredulous.

Next to him, Loki drains his glass. "Ah, I see," he says, peering into the bottom. "It's merely carbonated wine. How peculiar."

Steve gulps his down. "Don't normally like the stuff, myself. But, it's a thing this time of year."

Steve doesn't know what to do with himself, how to handle this—tension. For him, it's pleasant, a bubbling anticipatory joy in the pit of his stomach, but he can tell that Loki is just uneasy, maybe even upset. When Steve tries to catch his eye, he looks away.

"Well, Captain," he says curtly, "as you point out, it has been a long night. I shall retire. A happy turning of the year to you, then."

Steve smiles, even though Loki isn't looking. "You too, Loki."

He watches him slip away.

A minute later, Natasha appears, pulls him down by the front of his shirt, and kisses him squarely on the lips. "Happy New Year, Steve," she says, grinning.

Steve laughs. "You realize how many people's hopes you've gotten up tonight, don't you?"

"Yeah, so?" She fixes her smudged lipstick, still grinning. "Not my problem." Her smile fades as she gets a better look at him. "Hey, you okay?"

He frowns. "Yeah, why?"

"You just have this…look on your face."

"I do?"

"Yeah. It's like…"

He grimaces, as if he can shake loose the offending expression. "Like what?"

"Like somebody just whispered all the secrets of the universe in your ear," she says.

His breath catches. He searches for a flippant response but can't find one—his thoughts are stuck somewhere else. Natasha is watching him, and he's sure she can see the entire contents of his heart right now, scrawled in red letters across his face. His whole body goes hot and then cold.

"Excuse me," he says. "I need to—uh—"

He hurries away.

 

There's no one else in the dormitory wing when Steve crosses the common area to Loki's door. No light is shining under it, but that isn't unusual. He knocks. After a moment, the door opens.

"Can I come in?" Steve asks.

Loki, dressed in the t-shirt and track pants he sleeps in, steps back to allow Steve inside. His wary eyes remain on Steve even as he reaches over to flip on the overhead light. "Certainly, Captain, what can I—?"

Steve shuts the door behind him, takes Loki's face in his hands, and kisses him.

Loki may be centuries old and superhumanly strong, but he lets Steve coax his mouth open with his tongue, lets his eyes slip shut, and lets Steve back him against the wall to deepen the kiss, yielding his powerful body to Steve's. Lightly his hands slide up Steve's back, bunching the fabric of his shirt, pressing gently—holding Steve the way Steve might hold a sparrow. But when Steve looks into his face, he knows it's _him_ whose casual strength could do damage if he isn't careful.

Loki's eyes beg him to be careful. "I cannot be who you want me to be," he says, pushing at Steve's chest.

Steve shakes his head, running his knuckles up and down the side of Loki's face. "I don't—"

"You asked if I regret what I did," Loki interrupts. "Well, I don't. I _can't._ "

Steve's hand stills.

"I feel it behind me," Loki says, with miserable intensity. "Like a vast wave, looming up in the dark. Those thousands of lives. Magic is connected to life, you know. I sense them like an electric current, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck."

Steve keeps quiet, afraid he'll break the spell.

"Captain…I cannot turn around and look at what I've done. I cannot even say it out loud." Loki's unearthly green eyes search Steve's for a trace of understanding. "What can I do?"

Steve cups his face again, so carefully, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. "You're doing it," he says, since he needs to say _something_. "One foot in front of the other—just, helping make it right."

"Can it ever be _right?_ " Loki hangs between hope and disbelief. "Surely _you_ don't think so."

It's because he's beginning to fall in love, he knows, that he wants to say _yes_ , wants to fling forgiveness at Loki with all his might. Is that what all his principles amount to? Which is more true—his desire for justice, or his desire to forgive? The Steve of yesterday, or the Steve of today?

Both, neither—but Loki needs _someone_ to extend a hand, or all the justice in the world won't matter. "You _can_ make it right," he says, smoothing back the spill of Loki's hair, and when he sees the awed relief in Loki's eyes, he knows what he's said is true.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again, readallthewords! Sorry I couldn't really work in Clint or Sam—I was having too much fun writing Steve and Natasha being bros. Maybe I'll get them into the sequel. You also said you liked romanticallyconfident!Steve, and I hope this delivered on that somewhat—he doesn't have much chance, but I hope you enjoyed the little he did get to do. Again, more of that in the sequel!


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